Why We Fight
by Superhero Anonymous
Summary: For victory...for peace...


**Why We Fight**

Left jab.

A lone figure danced underneath the dim moonlight, sizing up his leather opponent; his movements quick, and his eyes focused. He had to be ready.

Left jab, right hook.

Crime did not rest for the weary. Quiet nights such as these presented the perfect opportunity to catch people unaware. Innocent people. Like Mom and Dad.

Left jab, right hook, right kick.

There were those who took advantage of others for personal gain. Thieves. The common ones stole out of desperation…but some of them, just because they could.

Then, there were those who relished having power over others. Physical subjugation, psychological torture; those were worse.

But, out of all the criminals his city had faced, there was only one who was both. A mercenary, willing to do whatever was necessary to achieve his goals. Poisoning teenagers, manipulating a lost girl, and even engulfing the world in fire and brimstone. Nothing was beneath him.

He ground his teeth, horrible memories returning unbidden. A flurry of jabs, then a spinning backhand.

The target before him was no longer a mere punching bag, but a man dressed in a full black body suit, plated armor guards, and a distinctive one-eyed face mask.

Slade.

Fueled by a sudden burst of anger, his fists repeatedly slammed into the man's gut. Left, right, left, right, left…

The image dissipated as the bag flew across the room, landing with a soft thud. He paused, breathing heavily from exhaustion. His knuckles ached from overuse, and his legs burned like fire.

But now was not the time for weakness; he needed to be strong. Strong enough to bring super-powered villains to justice. Strong enough to fight for those who could not. Strong enough to protect those he cared about. To protect _her_.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, he reached down to pick up another punching bag.

This was war, a war on crime. And he would not rest until the war was won.

Right jab.

-TT-

A lone figure stood in the shadows of the training room, observing the boy spar with yet another leather opponent. Her countenance, while usually bright with vivacity and joy, was filled with worry. He was pushing himself too hard.

Right jab, left hook.

War was a terrible thing. It took the lives of innocents, destroyed homes, ruined families. Including hers.

Right jab, left hook, left kick.

On her planet, there was no room for the weak. The _rutha_. If you did not fight ravenously for your food, you did not get any. If you did not destroy your enemies without mercy, they would surely not hesitate to destroy you. Only the strong survived; that was her life.

A flurry of jabs, then a spinning kick.

But here, it was different. Yes, there was still conflict, and a struggle for survival. There were still those who fought others to get what they wanted. But, there were also those who helped others out of kindness. Those who lent aid, expecting nothing in return. Those who were… _nice_.

Her friends. People who had accepted her to their world without question. People who allowed her to be herself, and share her customs freely with them. (Even if it was done with curiously odd looks on their faces.) People who gave her a sense of belonging. Her family.

Right, left, right, left, right…

A warrior was trained to fight. To follow orders, serve her people. To do whatever was necessary to achieve victory. Even make the ultimate sacrifice.

But now, she was afraid. Afraid of losing her dearest friends to the same strife that took her old family away. Afraid of not being strong enough to protect the people she cared about. Afraid of losing _him_.

She watched, hands folded, as he defeated another punching bag, sending it careening across the room, landing with a soft thud atop the others. His knuckles were bleeding, and his breaths were ragged. He looked beaten.

Her resolve strengthened. Yes, she was no longer a proud warrior, eagerly seeking battle. She had become too merciful, too compassionate, too _rutha_. But, there was a difference between being reluctant to fight, and being unable to fight.

Emerging from the shadows, she marched directly towards the exhausted boy, determined to force him to get some rest.

This was war, a war threatening the peace. And she would not rest until her loved ones were all safe together at home.

Big hug.


End file.
